


Always One Foot on the Ground

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, So much talking, and then also smut, the secret origins of felicity smoak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Felicity's had a long couple of days, what with her mother's visit and her ex-boyfriend's reappearance and Oliver's insistence on reminding her about his feelings. So of course Oliver would show up at her place when all she really wants to do is sleep. <b>SPOILERS for "The Secret Origins of Felicity Smoak."</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Always One Foot on the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: To katelinnea and youguysimserious. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to DC and Warner Bros. Title from Regina Spektor's "Fidelity."

Felicity is exhausted.

Which is… really not that surprising, considering the chaos-on-all-fronts of the past 48 hours. But once she gets home from dropping her mother at the airport, she flops onto her couch, too tired to do more than kick her shoes off and lay her glasses onto the end table. Her body melts into the cushions, and not even the edge of her underwire rudely poking her rib cage is enough to make her move.

She’s so tired, but her stupid brain is apparently determined to cycle through all kinds of topics, good and bad -- the new kind of peace with her mother, the fallout from being kidnapped (again), the shock and grief over Cooper, and, of course, Oliver once again declaring himself while also declaring himself off limits.

She brushes a hand across her face and drops her arm over her eyes, groaning into the crook of her elbow. Her eyes are burning with the strain, but she can already tell she’s too wired to fall asleep.

Which makes sense -- it’s barely 8 o’clock. But she’s _so_ tired. She gets like this sometimes -- she doesn’t think of it as insomnia, really. It’s just that her brain occasionally needs to process things well past her ability to be a productive, awake person, no matter how many cups of coffee she shotguns. In college and now in her work with Oliver, the non-stop processing can be a plus -- just sit her semi-comatose ass in front of a computer and let her glaze over and she’ll _still_ get shit done.

But tonight it’s not a particularly thorny piece of code, or search parameters that need tweaking, or anything else that the puzzle-solving part of her brain can work through without much conscious guidance. No, tonight she’s stuck on emotions, on her well-honed expectations of abandonment, and on her unrelenting guilt.

Guilt for Cooper’s death, which hadn’t actually been corporeal death so much as the death of his soul. Which, sure, sounds melodramatic, but whatever naivete she’d had at age 20, she’d still known Cooper well enough to know he would never do something like this. She wouldn’t have fallen in love with a man capable of _this_. Would she? 

He’d pushed boundaries, sure, but he was never selfish or cruel. She’d mourned him for so long, missing his presence in her life even as she’d tried to deal with a crushing amount of guilt. She’s not sure if she should feel relieved that he survived underneath all of her anger. She feels the familiar burning in her throat, but she’s not sad. 

And she doesn’t want to do this right now.

“No,” she whines into the silence of her apartment. “Can’t my subconscious process this? I will accept nightmares in exchange for four solid hours of sleep.”

She closes her eyes, wills herself to fall asleep.

Nope. 

Now all she can see are Kodachrome images of her father, grainy and sun-drenched from the perspective of her six-year-old self. She’s usually much better at pushing his memory away, at locking it into a box. But her mother -- she’d said all she sees in Felicity is her father, and that idea stuck with her. It can’t be true; Felicity doesn’t _want_ it to be, doesn’t want to be anything like her father. She would never abandon her family. Once Felicity cares about someone, that’s it. She’s there for life.

Felicity is her mother’s daughter in the ways that count -- in ways that she’s ashamed to admit that she never really thought about before.

Who needs her father anyway? He clearly didn’t love her enough to stay.

Kind of a recurring theme in her life.

“No,” she says. “Stop this.” She moves a little, curls onto her side, tries again to blank her mind. “Maybe wine,” she murmurs, but that would of course require getting up and locating a bottle and a corkscrew and that seems like a lot of effort. “If only I had a manservant.”

She wonders what it says about her mental state that she’s talking aloud to herself in her empty apartment.

Felicity lets her eyes drift shut even as her mind jumps from topic to topic. She’s angry and sad and kind of traumatized and relieved and -- a lot of things. It’s unsettling. She needs something to take her mind off of... _everything_ , and she’s not really sure what that _something_ is. 

Before she can solve that particular mystery, there’s a knock on her door. Considering how badly that went for her _yesterday_ , Felicity is immediately suspicious. She lifts her head and glares at the door. “Who is it?”

“Felicity.”

Ah. Oliver. Good, because what her night’s lacking is _more_ turmoil. She lets her head drop back to the cushions for a brief moment. 

“Felicity?”

Grumbling, she pushes herself upright, reaching up to tug the elastic out of her hair as she crosses to the door. If she’s not going to melt into a pile of sleep on her couch, then she’s going to handle whatever Oliver wants, change into pajamas, and bring a bottle of wine to bed. 

So resolved, she pulls the door open and gives him a small smile. “Hi?”

“Hey.” Oliver looks good (of course), still in his Casual Billionaire About Town designer jeans and plaid shirt ensemble. He may have lost most of the money, but he still has all of his fancy clothes. That look, yes, okay, really good on him. 

Belatedly, Felicity notices that he’s shifting his weight a bit nervously. She narrows her eyes. “What’s up?”

“Can I come in?” he asks, his tone soft.

Felicity steps back. “Why not, everyone else has,” she mumbles, glancing over at him when he stops short, looking around with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Am I interrupting--?”

“No, no,” she cuts him off, closing the door behind him and then waving a dismissive hand. “Yesterday it was kind of a madhouse here -- my mom, random kidnappers.....” Something tells her not to mention Ray’s puzzling appearance on her doorstep.

“How are you doing with...” Oliver pauses and gives a tiny shrug with one shoulder, “everything?” 

He’s hovering strangely in the middle of the room. Six months ago, she would’ve grabbed his hand and tugged him over to sit beside her, but she doesn’t feel like she can do that anymore. He rarely touches her, either, these days. Still can’t resist telling her in roundabout, confusing, infuriating ways that he _loves_ her, but God forbid he just--

“Felicity?”

She snaps her gaze to him. Crap, he looks concerned now. “I’m fine,” she answers belatedly, gesturing towards the couch and then moving to sit. 

He hesitates, but follows her, settling in like they’ve done plenty of times before. She wishes it didn’t feel so weighty tonight. “I wanted to check in with you,” he says. “I spent the evening with Thea.”

Felicity’s smile is genuine. “That’s great, Oliver.” Thea’s all the family Oliver has left, and Felicity wants nothing more than to see them get back to a place where they are friends and siblings. He was kind of a mess while she was off finding herself, and Felicity is relieved to see how having Thea back has taken a little of that weight off of Oliver’s shoulders. “Thea’s good?” 

“Yeah.” He can’t quite contain his grin. “It’s a process,” he adds, “but she actually suggested that we be roommates.”

Felicity’s eyes widen, just for one second, when she misunderstands the _we_ in that sentence. She exhales on a laugh to cover and adds, “Much better than the foundry.”

Oliver catches her gaze, doing that intense thing that he does, that thing that makes her believe what he keeps saying, no matter how much it hurts her. “Maybe, but I love that bed.”

Felicity’s stomach drops, and she’s just _too_ tired for this right now. She can’t even try to talk in metaphors and backwards declarations, so she just keeps moving forward. Which is kind of her coping mechanism these days -- just keep moving forward and ignore the weighty subtext of everything. “It’s a glorified cot,” she answers finally, half-turning towards him on the couch, bringing her knee up. She doesn’t miss the way Oliver’s gaze drops as her skirt inches north with her movements. She doesn’t miss the way he turns a little toward her, too. 

“Felicity.”

She stills, because he’s not arguing with her about the bed, which could have been a safe topic. Maybe. Not that her buying him a bed was the _most_ platonic thing they’d ever done, but it probably wasn’t the least, either. So maybe it’s not safe ground, exactly, but it seems safer than the look on his face right now. He’s watching her, his expression as open and as hopeful as it was during the non-sucky parts of their date. 

She can’t help it -- she stiffens, automatically crossing her arms to her chest as some kind of defense mechanism.

Not that she’s ever been able to protect herself from this man.

“Felicity,” he says again, “I’ve been thinking.”

“No, no, no,” she says, pushing up from the couch and circling around behind it, heading into the kitchen for lack of a better idea. Though that is where the wine lives, so maybe it’s actually the best idea. Because she’s going to kick him out and drink two glasses really fast and hopefully, _hopefully_ fall asleep. The rest she’ll deal with tomorrow. “A lot’s happened the last couple days, and--”

“Hey,” he interrupts, and he’s right behind her, the stupid silent ninja. She turns to face him; he’s standing just inside the kitchen, and that strange nervous tension in his body is back. “I’m not trying to make things difficult.”

She laughs at that. Actually laughs, and Oliver has the audacity to look hurt, and she just _can’t_. “You’re always difficult, Oliver.”

He leans his hip against the counter and they stare at each other across the width of her kitchen. But she doesn’t live in a mansion with what is probably a vast, marble-floored industrial kitchen, so there’s not _nearly_ enough distance between them what with Oliver looking at her with hurt and hope in his eyes. “I don’t mean to be,” he says finally.

The thing of it is, he’s probably telling the truth -- she knows he’s not _intentionally_ drawing out the process of breaking her heart, of leaving her. It’s just... the way he operates. “I know,” she sighs. 

Oliver watches her for a moment. “Before, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to know that there’s nothing you could ever tell me that would change how I feel about you.”

Everything comes crashing back all of a sudden -- the anger at Cooper, the heartbreak of Oliver’s words, the _good_ ache associated with her mother’s visit. She can tell she’s redlining, overheating with all of it, but she can’t stop herself. “You won’t let yourself love me but you won’t let me go,” she blurts out without meaning to dive into this stupid can of self-sacrificing vigilante worms. “It’s not fair, Oliver.”

He opens his mouth to protest, or argue, or maybe reiterate his feelings _again_ , and she lifts a hand and talks over him. “Why can’t you see that nothing _you_ could ever tell _me_ would change how I feel about you?” Her voice is shaking with anger, with fear, because she feels like this is going to push them past the breaking point if she doesn’t stop it, but she’s obviously lost control of her mouth. “Why can’t you see that all you’re doing is hurting us both? Why don’t you love me _enough_?” 

“Felicity,” he says, and in two quick steps he’s right there, staring down at her with those ridiculously blue eyes of his. “I _do_.” He’s not lying, she can tell, and she doesn’t know if that makes everything better or worse when he adds, “This is everything that I want. You _know_ that.”

“How could I possibly know that when all you do is push me away?” she snaps, and her voice echoes in the sudden silence. Oliver looks too stunned to come up with a response and Felicity decides she’s too tired for deception and doublespeak anyway. She’s too tired for all of this. So she shrugs and all the fire drains out of her. “It’s really hard,” she admits, slumping back and letting counter behind her keep her upright, “trying not to love you when you say things like you did today.”

Something shifts in his expression, like a facade crumbling away, and then suddenly she can see the man who recounted their first meeting like it meant as much to him as it always has to her. She can see the man who _loves_ her. She knows it’s true, she can see it, she can _feel_ it in the way his hands land on her biceps, skimming up to her shoulders. 

“You love me,” he murmurs, sounding more than a little awed. His eyes are wide with surprise, and shimmering enough that she thinks maybe he’s tearing up. 

Felicity aches for him. “Of course I do,” she whispers. She’s making a huge mistake because love has never been enough, but she leans up into his kiss anyway.

It’s so much better this time, because he’s not kissing her goodbye. That might be tomorrow’s problem, but she doesn’t care right now. Because tonight, his hands are on her shoulder blades, then one trails up to her neck, making her shiver. She twines her arms around his rib cage and lets go of the hurt and the anger and the certainty that this is going to be what finally breaks her. She doesn’t think about what’ll happen when he pushes her away again, she just gives in to her need for him, for this.

Oliver moans into her mouth, and then things escalate. Quickly.

One minute, they’re chest to chest, the edge of the counter pressing really hard into her lower back as they kiss desperately; the next, he’s lifting her and she’s half-sitting on the counter, her legs wrapped around his waist. His hands are large and warm against her, his palm sliding low around her hip, his fingers gripping her ass to pull her closer. 

Felicity arches her back, pressing herself against the hard planes of his chest, whimpering at the electric feel of it. She’s having some trouble processing exactly what’s happening, she’s so overwhelmed. Because Oliver is -- as far as she knows -- standing firm in his I-love-you-but-can’t-be-with-you-because-reasons idiocy, yet he is very, very enthusiastically kissing her. And dragging those strong hands of his along her sides, across her back.

And it’s so good. She’s breathing too fast and way too shallowly, so she leans her head back against the cabinet, her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. She’s basically clinging to him, which is what she’s been trying her hardest not to do the last two months, figuratively speaking. And literally too, actually. But instead of letting him go when her actions register, her thighs tighten against his hips.

Oliver is kissing her neck, mumbling nonsense against her skin, his fingers dipping inside the edges of her shirt. 

“Please,” she whispers, and then his mouth is back on hers, their kisses desperate and a little sloppy now. She feels his hand tracing the zipper up the back of her shirt, feels him start to slide it down, and she needs him. His regular, casual, everyday touches had the ability to wind her up, so these caresses, the _intentional, purposeful_ feel of his hands on her body is so much more powerful. She feels drugged with it. She needs more of his hands on her body, she needs the sweet oblivion, she needs _Oliver_ , and she doesn’t even care about tomorrow.

Felicity shifts against him, bringing her hands around to his abs and gasping when she feels the muscles clench through the soft fabric of his shirt. Feeling the hard ridges shift and flex beneath her fingers is about thirty-seven times as arousing as watching him on the salmon ladder. Which is saying _a lot_.

She reaches lower, cupping him through his jeans, and Oliver breaks the kiss with a desperate “Felicity,” as he leans into her touch.

Felicity tugs on his belt, unfastening it and popping the button of his jeans before reaching for the zipper.

Oliver’s hands land on hers. “Wait,” he says, breathing heavily. “Wait, just -- not like this.”

She freezes, her back rigid and her eyes jammed shut. 

And Felicity? Is _done_.

She lets go of him, leans away from him, bringing both hands to her face. She’s so angry and so hurt, but not at all surprised, which is the worst part.

“Felicity--?”

“Go,” she interrupts, her voice flat. “Just go.”

“What? No,” he answers, and he actually sounds confused.

Felicity wants badly to hit something. “You couldn’t have had an attack of conscience _after_?” she asks bitterly, her voice muffled by the hands still pressed to her face. She hates that she can hear the hurt in her voice. Hates that _he_ can hear it.

“Felicity, no, that’s _not_ \--” She twists away from him, jumping down from the counter to brush past him, chin high. She’s shaking and she’s pretty sure that as soon as he leaves she’s going to cry so hard that she’ll have a brutal headache, but she _will not_ look at him. “Felicity, wait.” 

She can hear him following her through the living room, and then his hand touches her shoulder. She wrenches away and keeps going. “You can let yourself out.” When she reaches her bedroom, she lets out a ragged breath and swallows the tears that are threatening. Her shirt is already mostly unzipped so she reaches back to yank the zipper the final couple of inches. Shrugging her shoulders, she lets the material slide down her arms and then flings it in the general direction of her hamper. 

Felicity turns, stopping short when she realizes that he followed and is standing in the doorway of her bedroom, pants still half-undone, watching her with a strange, panicky look on his face. She’s standing before him in a mostly sheer turquoise bra and her bright blue skirt, but she ignores the flush of embarrassment she feels.

To his credit. Oliver’s gaze mostly stays on her face. Mostly.

“Hey,” he says in that soft voice that always calms her. Damn him. “I’m sorry I was unclear,” he says slowly, his hands raised a bit, palms toward her. He’s watching her the way she imagines he’d watch an injured animal, like he’s on alert for the unexpected. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he continues with a faint grin, “because I was a little distracted.”

She wants to kiss him and smack him in equal measure, because thinking of her, of _this_ , as a distraction is what he said the first time around right before he called the whole thing off.

He must read her face, because Oliver sobers and takes a cautious half-step into her bedroom. The sight of him here, exactly where she’d imagined so many times -- it’s overwhelming. 

Oliver’s watching her intently as he asks, “Please can I explain what I meant?”

Like she’s ever been able to stop him from breaking her before. Felicity shrugs and he swallows hard, glancing at her breasts. She refuses to move, to cover up, to let him off the hook -- because he’s in _her_ bedroom and it’s not like he hasn’t subjected her to _way_ more shirtlessness. (Not that “subjected to” is a fair characterization, but she doesn’t feel much like being fair to him at the moment.)

“This,” he says, gesturing between them, “this isn’t five minutes on your kitchen counter. We’re more than that.”

Felicity frowns, because whatever she was expecting him to say -- well, that wasn’t it.

“I _love_ you.” Oliver takes another step toward her, his hands reaching towards her. “Let me show you.”

She opens her mouth, but to her surprise, nothing tumbles out. She swallows, tries again. “What?” It’s a little squeaky, but it’ll do. Because she doesn’t understand what’s happening -- he’s supposed to be apologizing and backing out of her apartment right now, not asking to stay.

Oliver erases the distance between them, taking her hands in his. “I’m trying, Felicity. I’m trying to be what you need, to be the man you think you see when you look at me.”

Felicity blinks. “But -- you said...” She shrugs. “I can’t do this halfway.” Because now that they’ve stopped, now that the haze has lifted some, she’s already regretting what happened in the kitchen. Because now she knows _for sure_ how electric they are together, how _right_. Every halting step they take toward what they both want makes it more and more impossible to move back away.

If she sleeps with him now, she’ll never be over him. 

She’s not confident she’ll ever be over him _anyway_ , but prefers to keep her illusions about that as long as he’s still stuck on _maybe someday_.

He threads his fingers through hers. “I didn’t come over here to-- Hey, Felicity,” he says, his grip tightening on her when she tries to pull away. “I just -- I thought I could just keep loving you from afar. But I didn’t count on you.”

“Oliver, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” She’s exhausted and frustrated and she knows she can’t handle much more of this tonight. “I don’t know what you _want_ from me.” 

He leans in, slowly, slowly -- giving her all the time in the world to pull away, to turn her face. She doesn’t, and he kisses her again, gently. “Everything,” he whispers against her lips. “As soon as you said you loved me...” He straightens up, shaking his head with a little, bemused smile. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt something like that.”

She’s still not following him. Which isn’t surprising, since Oliver is just terrible at talking about his feelings. “Something like what?”

Slipping his arms around her waist, he pulls he a little closer. “I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve loved people before, but this…” He shrugs. “Diggle said something to me once, not long after I got back from the island -- the first time I got back,” he clarifies. Oliver leans even closer, pressing his forehead against hers for a moment. “Dig said I was _here_ , but I never really left that island.”

Felicity can’t breathe, can’t look away from him. She’s not entirely sure where he’s going with this, but she can feel the gravity of the moment. Plus, he’s so close to her that his face is all she can see. “Oliver,” she says, but she’s not even sure what she’s asking for.

“This,” Oliver continues, his voice soft and certain, “you -- you’re home. This feels like home to me, like I finally made it back.”

She kisses him immediately, because of course she does. After _that_? After admitting so much more than she ever expected him to? She’s pretty sure she’s crying, too, but she doesn’t care about that right now.

His arms are crushing her to his chest in the best way, his mouth enthusiastic against hers, and she’s overwhelmed for a long moment.

And then he’s pulling back, looking at her with big, sad eyes, and she will _murder_ him if he tries to walk any of that back. “Oliver,” she warns, her fingers tightening against his shoulder blades, as if she can possibly hold him in place if he wants to move.

To her surprise, he stills. “I don’t want to screw this up, Felicity,” he admits. “And I’m pretty bad at this, at relationships.”

She considers that briefly. “Not with me,” she decides. “We’re not going to screw this up, Oliver, so we’ll just figure it out together.” Giddiness bubbles up inside of her, and she beams at him. “Partners,” she reminds him.

His answering smile is ridiculously bright, and then he’s kissing her again and his big warm hands are flush against her back, and she’s perfectly fine with the talking portion of the evening being over. Felicity lifts up onto her toes to get even closer to him, her fingers creeping under his shirt, too impatient to fuss with buttons. She will happily, _cheerfully_ move right along to the hot sex. Well, she _assumes_ it will be hot sex.

“God, it better be hot,” she mumbles. Accidentally.

Oliver pauses with her bra half unclasped and smiles against her lips. “What?”

Seriously, if just _one_ embarrassing thought could remain unspoken one of these days, she’d consider it a minor miracle. “I don’t want to put too much pressure on you,” she says, dragging her nails across his abs -- and, _seriously_ , tomorrow she’s going to spend a solid hour just drooling on his six-pack. Or, you know, twenty-four pack or whatever ridiculousness he’s rocking. It’s inhuman.

“Felicity?” he prompts, pulling back just enough to ease her bra down her arms. She has to remove her hands from his abs to get it all the way off, which sucks, but she does it anyway with a cranky huff. Her mood improves considerably when he skims his fingers around her breasts, letting the edges of his thumbs drag across her nipples.

“Off,” she orders, tugging on the hem of his plaid shirt. 

Oliver reluctantly lets go of her breasts and reaches for the buttons of his shirt.

“What you said before,” she says, pursing her lips as her attention is a little waylaid by his fingers deftly unfastening buttons. He’s really good with his hands. He’s got... _dexterity_. The thought makes her press her thighs together. “What’s wrong with five minutes on a counter?” she asks.

“Huh?” he says, puzzled. He stops unbuttoning his shirt, which was emphatically _not_ her intent, and watches her, brow furrowed.

“When it’s all sweaty and desperate and fast -- that’s perfect sometimes, actually.” Felicity trails her fingernail down the center of his chest. “Like tonight,” she continues, and she’s pretty sure Oliver actually stops breathing to listen to her explain this. “A lot’s happened really fast and I have trouble sleeping occasionally when I can’t turn my brain off,” she says, and she can tell from his bewildered expression that he’s not quite making the connections. “So I’m going to need your help with that tonight,” she explains. “I need you to make me stop _thinking_ about everything. I need sweaty and hard and fast.”

Oliver blinks once, his fingers tensing, and then he reaches back and yanks the half-undone plaid shirt and a grey t-shirt over his head in one swoop, letting it drop behind him. He looks feral as he advances on her, bare-chested with his pants partially undone and sitting dangerously low on his hips.

Felicity lets out a really high-pitched squeak, backing right into her tall bookcase. She considers that she _may_ have overplayed her hand, but then Oliver leans his blissfully naked chest into her and she’s groaning before he even starts kissing her again. The shelves are pressing into her lower back and her shoulder blades and she doesn’t care in the slightest.

Oliver’s hands are busy -- skimming along her ribs, cradling her neck, sneaking up under her skirt, and Felicity presses her palm to the middle of his chest and urges him back. With a quick bite to her lip, he obliges, but drops his mouth to her neck, then her collarbone as her hands scrabble for his zipper. She lets her head drop back and ignores whatever knick-knack just toppled to the floor with a thud. 

Oliver looks up, concerned at the noise.

“Not important,” she tells him, pushing him back toward the bed. “Lose the pants.” She’s so turned on she can barely think straight, and she’s just... _so happy_. She can’t stop smiling. 

He drops onto the edge of the bed once he gets his pants and boxer-briefs down, leaning over to get rid of his shoes and socks, and when he straightens, she’s distracted by the goofy smile on his face. “C’mere,” he says.

She moves closer, taking an appreciative look at his naked form. “Yes, please,” she murmurs, and then Oliver is laughing, his hands tugging her skirt down past her hips, catching her underwear, too, and Felicity steps out of everything. She doesn’t have time to feel self-conscious, because he grabs her waist and pulls her between his knees, wrapping those crazy-strong arms around her for a warm and totally sexy hug. 

And how a hug can be sexy is beyond her, but Oliver’s rough, warm skin is pressed against her belly, and his scruff is scratching her breasts, so there you go.

As soon as he loosens his grip, he plants firm hands on her waist and twists, and basically tossing her onto the bed beside him. She squeals -- because, unexpected but totally fucking hot. She’s still bouncing a little on the mattress and he’s already on her, grinning down at her, his palm flush against her hipbone, and she can’t fully convince herself that this is real.

“Let’s see if we can turn that big brain off for a while,” Oliver says in the dirtiest, most suggestive voice she’s ever heard from him, and she’s shifting restlessly beneath him even before his fingers inch lower. 

“Good plan. Excellent -- uhhh -- plan,” she agrees. Felicity’s hips jerk of their own accord, even as she grins up at him. She has a hand on his bicep, the other scratching her nails lightly along his chest, but it’s hard to concentrate on her hands when _his_ are so delightfully occupied. “Big fan of -- yeah, of _that_.” She knew he’d be _so_ good with his hands, God. She’s been buzzing with lust for this man for an hour. 

Or, more accurately, for like two years.

But the reality is so much better than she’d imagined. He’s got two fingers inside of her, his thumb working her clit, and his mouth and other hand are making really delightful circuits from her breasts to her collarbone, to that spot right where her neck and shoulder meet that makes her moan, and occasionally to her mouth. When his thumb ghosts across her bottom lip, she sucks it into her mouth. His eyes darken and he works her a little faster.

She’s taking big gasping breaths already, her hips rolling against him, and how can he possibly have her this far gone already? Then he leans closer, staring down at her with love and happiness in his face, and says, “God, you’re beautiful.” 

It’s a lot, the combination of the sensations he’s drawing from her body, the fact that it’s _Oliver’s_ hands on her body, and that adoring look on his face. Felicity keeps her eyes open, holds his gaze as long as she can as she falls apart around his fingers.

She has no idea how long it takes her breath to steady enough for her to kiss him, but he’s running his hand along her side, down the outside of her leg, and around to cup her ass as she pulls herself back together. “Wow,” she murmurs against him.

Oliver grins down at her. “You weren’t kidding about fast,” he says. _Smugly_.

Felicity rolls her eyes at him. “Smartass.” 

He kisses her, hard and a little desperate, pressing his erection against her hip. “You’re fucking amazing, Felicity.”

She flings her arms around his neck, pulling him on top of her. “I’m not done with you,” she tells him, wriggling a little until he shifts into the cradle of her hips. Then she hisses and arches a little against the hard, heavy weight of him, still over-sensitive from her first orgasm.

Oliver stills immediately, concerned. “You okay?”

She grins at him. “I’m fucking amazing. Haven’t you heard?”

He huffs a laugh and kisses her, his hands slipping beneath her, pressing her even closer into his body. Felicity trails her hands down his back, cupping his ass for a nice, long, satisfying moment. That ass. Damn.

“Felicity,” he breathes into her neck, and he sounds a little strung out, a little desperate for her. The realization makes her smirk, but she has the decency to hide it in the crook of his neck. She nips at his skin, tasting him, and then wraps her legs around his waist in invitation. He pushes up onto one elbow. “Condom?”

“IUD,” she answers. “I’m okay if you are.”

Oliver groans, his eyes dropping closed for a moment. “I’m good,” he says, his tone gruff. But he still doesn’t move.

Felicity shifts against him, pressing kisses to the scruff along his jaw. “I’m right here, Oliver,” she says, reaching between them to guide him home. Her breath catches when she feels that perfect pressure begin, and then he stops. She opens her eyes to find him watching her closely. 

“I love you,” he tells her, and then pushes his way inside.

Felicity drops her head back at the delicious fullness, needing a moment to adjust. He’s surrounding her, his chest covering hers, his arms bracketing her sides, and his face staring down at her. Oliver holds still, his fingers tight on her hip, and he nuzzles behind her ear. “Okay?” he grits out, his breathing a little unsteady.

“God, yes,” she says, rolling her hips a little beneath him. 

Slowly, slowly, he pulls back and then thrusts back in. Again. And again. 

It’s a good angle, and Felicity shifts her legs a little higher to make it even better, to bring him even deeper. This isn’t usually her favorite position, but when she looks down his body and sees the play of muscles as he works his hips, she thinks she may have to reconsider. Her fingers are pressed against his ribs, and she skims her palms down his abdomen, groaning at the feel of those hard muscles clenching and releasing.

Her hands slide around to his back and her grip tightens, urging him on.

Oliver drops his head beside hers, his forehead on the mattress, and asks, “You still want it fast and hard?”

Probably the full body shudder was enough of an answer -- just hearing him say the words amps her up even more. “Please,” she says, and she sounds a little breathless herself now, “harder.”

Oliver buries himself inside her and stops. He pulses his hips minutely, just a hint of friction while he leans up to kiss her, all demanding tongue and desperation. ”You got it,” he says.

When he pulls out of her and levers himself off the bed, Felicity watches with wide, shocked eyes. She lifts a hand toward him. “Oliver, what--?”

He grabs her beneath the knees and drags her hips to the edge of the bed. “Trust me,” he says, then lifts her legs up, leaning her ankles against his shoulders. He gives her a wicked smile and only a second to process, then bends his knees and thrusts back into her more forcefully.

“Ohhhh,” she says, and this is so much better.

He pulls out and slams back in. “Yeah?” he asks, gripping her ankle so tightly she thinks she might have bruises tomorrow. She is not complaining.

“So good,” she answers, watching him -- the concentration on his face, the sweat beading along his chest as he moves. 

He sets a fast pace, slamming into her with every thrust. Felicity doesn’t have much leverage, but she’s still writhing against him, because he’s hitting her just right. Felicity feels a little on display as his gaze rakes down her body, to her breasts and lower, watching himself moving in and out of her, but it’s exactly what she asked for. What she needs -- hard and fast and there’s no room for her brain to think about things because all of her nervous system is otherwise occupied blissing out on Oliver.

“What do you need, Felicity?” he asks, and his voice all low and breathless from fucking her is the sexiest thing she’s ever heard in her entire life.

“I don’t know,” she says, and she’s quickly losing the thread, getting lost in the sheer physicality of him, in the crazy intensity of what he’s doing to her body right now. Her mind is fuzzy around the edges, and she can feel her orgasm building slowly, so slowly even as he moves at a relentless pace.

Oliver leans forward, one palm bracing on the mattress beside her waist, and the shift tilts her hips up a few degrees, and now she’s gasping with every thrust. “Oliver,” she says, her fingers clutching the blanket, at his arm. It’s torture, sweet torture. She’s so close, so close, and she can’t wait anymore, so she slides two fingers against her clit and presses in circles.

“Fuck,” Oliver mutters. “That’s it, Felicity. Come for me.”

Two more hard thrusts from him and she’s flying, waves of bliss radiating from her core, and she thinks she’s rambling, but she can’t form thoughts, really, so probably she’s not actually talking, but she’s _still_ coming, and there are, like, starbursts behind her eyes which she will never tell him because his ego is already too much sometimes even if it is apparently backed up by some serious talent. 

And then she’s laughing a little, mostly at her own jumbled thoughts, but a little in disbelief that all this is actually happening.

Oliver shifts again, and she feels her legs drop from his shoulders, but she is too languid and dazed to do much. He’s still moving, but much more desperately now. He’s nearly lost the rhythm, and he leans closer, down onto his elbows. Felicity lifts her hands to his face, tilts his chin up so he’s looking at her. “Your turn, Oliver. Come for me.”

His arms are tense, his entire body reaching for release. “Felicity,” he begs, that intense blue gaze pinning her in place.

She digs her fingers into his back, urging him on, and holds his gaze. “I love you, Oliver.”

He comes with a breathy groan, jerking against her before he drops onto her like a stone, his hot breath hitting her neck in little bursts as he pants.

Felicity gives a little “oof,” and wraps her arms and legs around him, because, holy shit, that was amazing and she loves him and he is _heavy_. He’s sweaty and his chest is heaving and he feels so good against her. She can’t take a full breath, but she likes it. 

She likes him. 

Obviously. But still. Worth noting. She likes him.

Oliver chuckles into her neck. “Good to know,” he murmurs.

Felicity feels so good, so weightless and floaty that she doesn’t even care that her orgasm wiped whatever brain-to-mouth filter she has right out. 

When Oliver tries to roll off of her, she grumbles against his chest. “I’m comfy,” she says. Or slurs, really. Keeping her eyes open? Not worth the effort.

“It’s okay, Felicity,” he says, and his weight on her lessens and then disappears, and she shivers with the loss of his heat. She realizes that he’s moving around, or moving things around, and she should really open her eyes since he’s the guest, but then he’s moving _her_ , pressing her back against the pillows and cleaning her up and then pulling her blanket up and over her, and she turns onto her side, grinning because her heart is still racing a little. And then she feels the mattress dip and Oliver tugging her against his chest, so she guesses he figured everything out and that’s fine and she’ll just rest here for a second and then get him some water or something ‘cause he’s probably thirsty from all that amazing sex.

Oliver chuckles and says, “I’m fine, Felicity.”

“Goddamn right you are,” she mumbles into his chest.

He huffs another laugh, his arms tightening around her. “I love you, Felicity,” he whispers. against her hair, his hands trailing soft patterns along her spine. “Go to sleep.”

“‘K,” she manages, shifting a little until she’s perfectly, bonelessly comfortable.

And her brain is blessedly calm as she drifts off to sleep.

END


End file.
